


Who Wears Short Shorts? Dean Wears Short Shorts

by rosie_berber



Series: I'm Like Oscar the Grouch. I Live in a Trash Can. [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Sex, But really just implied, Car Sex, Cars, Castiel in the Bunker, Garage, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, More smut to follow, Short Shorts, Smut, Total Destiel Trash, Washing the car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 15:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7623466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosie_berber/pseuds/rosie_berber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have been haunted by the shorts eluded to in "Baby" since it first aired. And after seeing those shorts after SDCC? My brain is going into overdrive. This isn't so much a fic as therapy, as I need to rethink life now that I have seen that much of Jensen's legs covered by such a pathetic (and amazing) excuse for a garment.</p><p>If you have somehow managed to deprive yourself of this beautiful, life-destroying image so far, <a href="http://rosie-berber.tumblr.com/post/148048273263/out-in-the-open-look-at-these-dorks-i-cant">go here and be ruined for life, like I am.</a></p><p>So the premise for this quick little one-shot: why did Dean put on those shorts in the first place? Why were they so short? Where the fuck was Cas during it all? The answer: Cas is the reason he put on those short shorts.</p><p>I am such utter trash for this ship. I hope I'm not alone.</p><p>I have a <a href="http://rosie-berber.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> and I don't know how to use it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Wears Short Shorts? Dean Wears Short Shorts

         _“Wanna bet?”_ They were words Dean would soon regret. For years, Castiel was the abyss where pop culture references went to die. Dean could not recall how many times he’d mention a movie or song only to be met with that (admittedly charming) vacant stare that would find itself pasted on Cas’s face. And Dean, great guy that he was, liked the guy regardless. It kept slipping his mind that, for over a year now, Castiel walked around with Metatron’s gift. He had gone from being culturally clueless to a savant. It was a fact that was easy to neglect - the forces of the universe seemed to be intent on keeping them apart.

 

        So really, it wasn’t so strange that he’d been so assured in his assertion, made after a few midday beers he was sharing with Cas, a sort of impromptu welcome back to the bunker from being-ripped-to-shreds-by-Leviathan-and-resurrected-with-amnesia-to-remember-who-you-are-only-before-going-insane-and-then-ending-up-in-Purgatory-only-to-be-freed-to-be-Naomi’s-minion-and-then-kind-of-sort-of-being-responsible-for-the-fall-of-all-angelkind-losing-your-grace-and-becoming-human-being-responsible-for-the-celestial-civil-war-living-on-stolen-grace-watching-me-get-turned-into-a-demon-and-then-just-sort-of-be-a-real-dick-for-a-year-get-your-grace-back-only-to-have-me-beat-it-out-of-you-nearly-again-and-then-the-Darkness-and-then-the-curse-and-holy-hell-I-thought-I-had-a-rough-couple-of-years. He wanted to spend some quality time, one-on-one, with his best friend.

 

        Dean had insisted the only correct spelling for that notorious Battlestar Galactica curse word was “frak.” Castiel calmly asserted that the original spelling was “frack,” only losing the “c” in its most recent iteration to be another four letter f word, like that which it was designed to replace. They wagered a truth and a dare, sealing the deal with a handshake (a gentleman’s agreement if there ever was one) before consulting that mighty Oracle known as Wikipedia. Dean scrolls the page, reading the etymology for the euphemism, uttering one word when he finds the answer.

 

         _“Fuck.”_

 

xxxxx

 

        Castiel isn’t sure why he chose the dare, to say nothing as to how he actually had the courage to express it, confidently no less. But if there's one lesson he'd learned at the Winchesters' side, it was that life (or lives, in each of their cases) was too short for missed chances. Just moments before, they were sitting in the library, Dean browsing the Wikipedia page for “frak” and now, now they were alone, together, in Dean’s bedroom. He turns to Dean, whose arms are crossed, head shaking in disbelief, eyes turned up towards the ceiling.

 

        “A deal is a deal Dean.”

 

        “That's before I realized how depraved you are! I mean - really? An hour of washing cars in the garage in cut-offs. _To Disco._ You are - you know, you are worse than _Gabriel._  And **he** made that kid slow dance with that alien!” Not a witty remark to be found amongst the complaint - Dean is flustered.

 

        Castiel is unmoved by the other man’s pleas. “You have mocked me for my comedic inadequacies since we met. Now you get to see just how wrong you were. Been playing the long con.”

 

        “Evil.”

 

        “Is that any way to talk to an angel of the Lord, Dean?” Castiel’s hands shuffle through the denim in one of Dean’s drawers. “These. Start cutting.” He hands the hunter a pair of scissors, the muscles in his face aching from the depth of his smile.

 

        Dean Winchester has been called many awful things in his life. Moron. Idjit. Jerk. Crowley’s bestie. But coward? That ain’t one of them. So he grabs the scissors and cuts the denim, just above the knees.

 

        “There. Happy?”

 

        Castiel tightens his eyebrows and lips in disapproval. “Shorter.”

 

        Dean snips another inch off each leg.

 

        “Shorter.”

 

        Another inch falls to the floor.

 

        “Shorter.”

 

        “Jesus, Cas, any more and they are glorified Daisy Dukes.”

 

        “I understand that reference too.” Castiel passes his fingers over the other man’s as he takes the shears into his possession, cutting across them to the point where the pockets’ white interior begins to peek out from below the blue. “There. Perfect. Now get dressed, clock doesn't start until you're in your uniform.”

 

        Dean looks at him, puzzled. “What happened to you man?”

 

        Castiel could answer. Could tell him of the horrors he has known while not at Dean's side. How he had endured so many troubles. He could explain that, despite still being in recovery from the curse, for the first time in years he is happy, elated, giddy. He is with Dean, and neither of them are under the command of heaven or hell. It is just _them._ How he doesn’t know when he will get another opportunity like this, and he doesn’t plan on wasting it.

 

xxxxx

 

        After what seemed like entirely too much time to change, Dean eventually marches towards the garage in the tailored garment. It is clear that he feels like a total idiot, his cheeks a rosy red, but Castiel is beginning to believe that this whole scheme is backfiring on him. For his own complexion is blushed the same hue, for Dean’s outfit is like a revelation, leaving so very little left up to his imagination.

 

        “You look great,” Castiel says, hoping he has masked the sincerity of the statement sufficiently.

 

        “One hour. That was the deal. One hour.”

 

        “With time off for good behaviour,” Castiel promises, as he hits play the playlist he has quickly started to build on the laptop.

 

        Dean grabs the bucket, soap and water, finishing the sudsy concoction just as the opening riff of “Play That Funky Music” resounds off the garage’s walls.

 

        “You. Are. A. Sadist.”

 

        Cas laughs, hard, for the first time in a very long time.

 

xxxxx

 

        It only takes a few tracks before Dean’s natural inclination towards performing takes over, figuring he has two choices: he can do this for sixty minutes begrudgingly, or he can _own it_. There were times to hold onto a sense of decorum, to fend off his natural silliness and adopt a serious adult persona. Those times were before he unleashed the Darkness into the world. What the hell, if Amara’s going to end the world sometime before next summer, dancing like a stripper to “Hot Stuff” and “Brick House” was the least of his worries.

 

        Evidently, his change of attitude had precisely the impact he wanted, for Castiel no longer looks arrogant, but rather, is frozen with a stunned expression painted across his face. _Good. Going to put that dick in his place._ KC  & The Sunshine Band’s “That’s The Way I Like It” starts to cut in. Perfect. Using the hose as a makeshift microphone, Dean lip-syncs the lyrics while dancing uncomfortably close to Castiel. Close enough to notice he seems to be taking staggered breaths. Close enough to recognize that expression as so strikingly similar to the one he had in that den of iniquity all those years ago.

 

 _When you take me by the hand,_  
_tell me I'm your lovin man_  
_When you give me all your love and do it_ _  
Babe, the very best you can._

 

        Ever the showman, Dean turns his attention back towards the car during the chorus, rolling his hips in a wholly unnecessarily way as he swipes with the sponge across its windows. Then, careful not to miss his cues, he turns his attention back towards the seemingly insensible angel.

 

 _When I get to be in your arms,_  
_when we're all all alone_  
_When you whisper sweet in my ear,_  
_when you turn, turn me on._

         _He looks scared,_ Dean thinks. _That’s what that look is, right? Fear? Disbelief? The grand finale will have him saying uncle. I just need to push it a little bit farther._ And so Dean, much to his own astonishment, wraps his arms around Castiel’s neck, full on straddling him as he mouths the last words of the song.

  
_Say O.K. That's the way, that's the way_ _  
_ _Say O.K. That's the way, that's the way_

 

        “Okay,” says the captive angel. And before Dean knows it, he does the only thing that makes sense to do in response, seemingly possessed by his short shorts and disco and the feelings that are now boiling to the surface of his skin. He puts his mouth put to far better use than lip syncing.

 

xxxxx

 

        Dean pulls away after just a few seconds of their lips touching, Castiel left in utter disbelief at what the other man has just done. The man who, just minutes earlier, was confidently spraying the hose against steel doors as if it was an extension of his own body, the man who _somehow_ knew all the lyrics to all these songs he would insist were awful, the man who had unapologetically dropped it like it was indeed hot, that man had just kissed him. And now he looked like a deer trapped in one of the many sets of headlights of the cars parked within the bunker’s garage. Castiel can tell that Dean’s fight or flight instinct is about to take hold, and he is not keen on either of those choices. So instead, Castiel plays his trump card, his ace in the hole.

 

        “I’m ready for my truth,” he says assuredly, gripping the hunter’s wrist before he tries to flee.

 

        Dean cannot manage to respond with words, but does nod, always a man of his word.

 

        It seems like entire stars form and die before Castiel can convince his brain that the question should indeed be sent to his tongue and lips for articulation. It is a question held in captivity, locked away in a cage no less safeguarded than Lucifer’s, for some seven years now. But it is a question he knew would always, one day, convince him to let it free. And so, Castiel musters up all of his resolve to utter four simple words.

 

       _“Do you want me?”_

 

        The movement of Dean’s lips back towards his own answer a resounding _yes._

 

xxxxx

 

        Dean’s hour has long elapsed when the two roll off one another, wholly satiated in the back of one of the classic cars inside the garage.

 

        Dean is the first to break the silence, with a question that has been plaguing him from between the moment Castiel’s tongue worked its way in circles around his cock and the moment he boldly went where no man has gone before. “‘How Deep is Your Love Cas?’ Really?”

 

        A clever smile finds itself curling across Cas’s face. “Hey, in hindsight, it was right on the nose, now wasn’t it?” Castiel giggles, his laughter filling the car with warmth.

 

        Dean can’t help but pull him in for a quick kiss before snaking back into his short shorts and t-shirt and returning to his previous task, sans disco.

 

        “What are you doing?” Cas asks, just as he pulls his shirt over his head.

 

        “Gotta go finish. Don’t want Baby to think I’m cheating on her.”

 

        “You, Dean Winchester, are one of a kind,” Castiel remarks as he closes the car door behind him.

 

        “That’s why you love me,” Dean responds, without thinking, wanting to immediately punish the word that has managed to escape his mouth.

 

        “That’s true,” Castiel reassures, leaving him with a kiss on his forehead before returning to his room to keep “recovering.”

 

        No sooner has Dean begin to run suds down the Impala’s windshield when he is greeted by a loud slam of a door. He is about to turn to ask if Cas is really already ready for round two when he hears a “Hey” of all the wrong tenor, not nearly enough rasp.

 

         _“Dude, what’s up with the shorts?”_

 

        

 

**Author's Note:**

> I will probably write the actual sex they have in the near future. . .if I don't get too distracted by Dean's shorts.


End file.
